Review: Mozart’s Don Giovanni – A Rock Opera for Casual Fans of Rock and Opera

It seems like a no-brainer to turn Don Giovanni into a rock opera. Mozart’s infamous libertine bedded women all over Europe, keeping a detailed catalog of his sexual conquests in each country: 640 in Italy, 231 in Germany, and a full 1,003 sleepless nights on his home turf of Spain. His love of wine and revelry, his high-flying vocals, and his conspicuous lack of remorse might have put him in league with Axl Rose or David Lee Roth in another era—but in 17^th century Seville, he’s just a spoiled aristocrat on the highway to hell.

Adam B. Levowitz has seen the obvious connection and has created Mozart’s Don Giovanni – A Rock Opera, which features his own rock orchestrations, as well as an English-language adaptation of the original libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte (a native Venetian who died a New Yorker following a life that rivaled any contemporary rock star in terms of drama and glamour). It is now making its New York premiere at the Cutting Room.

Levowitz has stayed mostly faithful to Da Ponte’s script, with some glaring omissions and the addition of a frame. The great-great-grandson of Giovanni’s valet Leporello (Richard Coleman plays both roles) welcomes us to the show with a monologue that seems to have been written with the same haste as Mozart’s overture (composed the night before opening). He explains, anachronistically, that this presentation of Don Giovanni commemorating the 100^th anniversary of Mozart’s death, will be a rock opera—in 1891.

We meet Giovanni (Ryan Silverman) mid-fling with Anna (Anchal Dhir). Her father, the commander (Edwin Jhamaal Davis), rushes out with a sword to defend her honor, but Giovanni quickly dispatches him. Anna knows it is up to her fiancé, Ottavio (Felipe Barbosa Bombonato), to avenge her father’s death, but he’s a hapless sad sack.

On top of that, Giovanni has the jilted Elvira (Rachel Zatcoff) breathing down his neck. Agent of chaos that he is, he decides to invite them all to a soirée. Further madness ensues with a ludicrous case of mistaken identity and a walking talking statue that wants to drag Giovanni to hell. You know, typical opera stuff—but also the ingredients of a certain type of rock and roll.

Unlike his intemperate protagonist, Levowitz’s great sin is timidity. Rather than following his wild hair of inspiration to its extravagant possibilities, he has opted for modest rock arrangements of Mozart’s original tunes, perhaps out of fear he might ruin what was already great. But melodically, these bones are strong—certainly sturdy enough for a gut renovation. Instead, we get the musical equivalent of a basement man cave where dad can temporarily revisit his rockin’ youth.

Levowitz takes more liberties with Da Ponte’s libretto, which he has chopped down for length (not a bad idea) while removing some of the best plot points (terrible). Poor peasant girl Zerlina and her fiancée Masetto are completely excised, removing any potential to conflate groupie drama with that Mozartian fascination, le droit du seigneur. This also means there is no rape, requiring Levowitz to devise a new stage action to prompt the first act finale (it’s not as compelling). Somehow, the New York City rock adaptation of Don Giovanni manages to be tamer than the smut Da Ponte was able to sneak past the censors of the Holy Roman Empire.

Levowitz, who also directs this concert staging, has at least hired a decent costume designer. With her gothic corsets, mesh shirts, and leather harnesses, Debbi Hobson places us firmly in the realm of Meat Loaf.

Of all the performers, Bombonato comes the closest to that special Jim Steinmann frenzy as the tortured cuck Ottavio, blasting his angst into the dining room with his magnificent runs on the second act number “How Can I Comfort Her?” With slicked-back hair in a permanent wet look, Dhir embodies Anna as dominatrix, casual malice in her effortless coloratura. As the commander, Davis terrifies with his bone-rattling bass. And Coleman gives us at least one character to root for, his perpetual exasperation expressing the everyday indignity suffered by those who sell their labor for a living. How was he to know he’d end up personal assistant to the Sevillian P. Diddy?

Silverman is squishier as the title character—certainly attractive, mildly charming, but missing that special spark in performance or musicality that would make him a truly memorable Giovanni. Great rock frontmen are rare, which is why they so often get away with so much odious behavior.

Unfortunately, Mozart’s Don Giovanni – A Rock Opera is the dramatic equivalent of a decent cover band. It’s perfectly pleasant to hear while you tuck into a steak, but it’s nothing to log in your little black book.